“Oh, I feel good about this one, Cort! I feel like a man who can’t lose!”

Kendrick Cortland, better known as ‘Cort,’ smirked at his partner. “Uh huh. Then take the shot, Derrick.”

Derrick Green squeezed his wadded-up ball of paper and eyed the recycle bin behind Cort once again before giving him a mistrustful glare. “You can’t cheat, dude. No moving from your seat, no-”

“No wheeling the chair,” Cort said, impatient but amused. “I know the rules of office basketball, Derrick. Take your shot.”

Derrick pursed his lips. “You forget I’ve been your partner for four years. Only reason you bothered to learn the rules was so you’d know how to bend them.”

Cort laughed. The man wasn’t wrong.

“I’m telling you right now, I’m not staying here a second after five just because you liked to hear yourself whining,” Cort warned. “I’ve got plans.”

“Yep. That’s the level of dedication I’ve come to expect from my partner,” Derrick teased, aiming his paper ball once again.

Derrick wasn’t wrong about that either. Cort liked his job, and some days he’d even loved it – the thrill of out-thinking criminals, the occasional feeling he’d helped someone. More and more often, though, closing a case felt like lopping the head off a hydra - the next day, two more would spring up to take its place. And when it came down to it, the most important investigation he’d conducted in the last year wasn’t on the FBI’s books at all.

“Hey, wait!” Derrick let the paper fall to the desk and pointed an accusing finger at Cort. “That means you’re not coming to Garvey’s with us tonight?”

“Nope.” Cort shook his head apologetically. “Not tonight.”

“Breaking tradition! We close a case, we go to Garvey’s!” Derrick’s brown eyes were as mournful as a basset hound’s. “But, fine. Whatever. Your plans are more important than hanging with your coworkers.”

If Derrick only knew. Understatement of the millennium.

Cort had plans that would help him locate his brother and hopefully take down a powerful, entitled criminal businessman in the process. So, yeah, just slightly more important than downing flat beer at Garvey’s Pub. Not that he would share any of those plans with Derrick.

From the other side of the cubicle dividing Cort and Derrick’s shared space from the rest of the office, Natalie Marquez’s deep voice shouted. “For God’s sake, Derrick, take the shot. Our boy’s got a date, and it’s about time he got lucky.”

Cort rolled his eyes, but didn’t correct her. It hadn’t been more than a month or - fine, maybe two, since he’d brought someone home, but not because he couldn’t. If you had a good build and a decent-looking face, finding a hookup was child’s play, and there was no more luck involved in the process of ‘getting lucky’ than there was in ordering a hamburger at the drive-thru. The problem was, those hookups were about as stale and unsatisfying as the dollar-menu burger.

“So, who’s the lucky gal?” Natalie, their computer specialist, peeked her platinum-blonde head above the divider. “Or is it a guy? It’s a guy, isn’t it?”

Cort shook his head. His bisexuality wasn’t something he’d ever hidden - nor was his personal life something he liked to discuss. “No comment.”

He cracked his knuckles as a spurt of nervous energy wormed its way through his gut. Part of him was excited that after months of planning, watching, and waiting, it was finally time to take action – the first step on a long path to getting his foster brother Damon back, and taking down the people who’d framed him - but he wasn’t particularly thrilled that tonight would involve what essentially amounted to unauthorized spying. Sinking to the level of the people he wanted to take down was sometimes necessary, but never fun.

Nothing more than a simple conversation, he reminded himself.

Cort’s desk phone rang, and Derrick groaned.

“Game over, buddy. Shoulda taken your shot while you had the chance,” Cort said, shaking his head with mock sympathy as he reached for the receiver. But the voice on the other end chased the smile from his face.

“Cortland, I need to see you in my office immediately.”

Agent Sean Cook, was one of the good guys - the kind of idealistic boss who didn’t have grand career ambitions and genuinely cared about his staff. His tone now was stiffer and harsher than Cort had ever heard him use before.

Cort’s stomached plummeted and his fingers clenched tightly around the phone.

In a career distinguished mostly by his ability to skirt the law and bend the rules, Cort was used to being in trouble. The question usually wasn’t whether he’d done something wrong, but which of those things he’d been found out on, and he wouldn’t have lasted long at this job if he let himself get riled every time he was called on the carpet.

Today, though, he was pretty sure he knew exactly why he was in trouble, and he was afraid there’d be no bouncing back from this one.

Using agency resources to track his brother had been a calculated risk. Time to pay the piper.

“Coming, sir,” he said, putting the receiver back in its cradle.

Without a second to lose, Cort removed a tiny thumb drive of pictures from his top side drawer and put it in his pocket with a grim smile. Then he unlocked the top middle drawer of his desk and took out the thin sheaf of papers he’d printed that morning. Holding them under the desk, out of Derrick’s view, he folded the stack in half and quickly slipped them between his sock and his shoe. Not comfortable, but effective.

The beauty of low-tech, baby. Nobody thinks to look anymore.

He stood.

Derrick glanced up in concern, their game forgotten. “Cooksy wants us?” Derrick was on his feet and reaching for the jacket hung over the back of his chair without waiting for Cort to reply, but Cort stopped him with an outstretched palm.

“Not us, man. Me.”

Derrick’s eyes narrowed. “You? Just you?” There was a thread of hurt in his voice as he added, “What’s going on, Cort?”

Cort cleared his throat against the niggle of guilt that tried to lodge there. He and Derrick Green had been partners for years, and the man had earned Cort’s trust. Derrick wasn’t an idiot - he knew Cort didn’t share any details about his personal life, but he probably thought Cort had enough team loyalty to share information that would impact their work, their partnership.

Cort hadn’t.

And yeah, it was partly because making personal connections was sticky as hell – telling people your shit compelled them to get involved in your life and vice versa. But he also reasoned that if he’d told Derrick about Damon’s disappearance, about the lies and the cover-ups, Derrick’s neck would be on the chopping block too.

Cort forced a smile to his face. “I feel like I may be getting some unexpected time off. You behave yourself, Derrick.”

Derrick shook his head, stunned and suspicious. “What’s this about?”

But Cort was already on the move, grabbing his gun from the lock box in his desk and sliding it into his holster - temporarily, at least - before snagging his own jacket and his FBI cell phone on his way out of the cubicle.

“Cort?” Natalie called, but Cort didn’t pause. He turned to flash her and Derrick a quick smile and salute as he pulled his jacket on. He wondered what the office rumors would have to say about his departure once it became known. Probably something like Cortland went vigilante and got his ass reamed again. If he were suspended or even fired, they’d likely think nothing of it. Derrick would get a new partner, Nat would find someone else’s love-life to live vicariously through, and that would be that. There was an upside to not putting down roots.

He pulled in a steadying breath. The familiar smell of stale coffee and donuts made his chest inexplicably tight, and he had to mentally roll his eyes at himself. Jesus, Cortland. If they could distill that odor into a candle fragrance, no sane person would buy it, but here he was all wistful because he knew he probably wouldn’t smell it again.

When he turned around a bank of cubicles and got a direct line of sight into Sean Cook’s glass-fronted office, he saw the man was not alone. Mark Porter, Special Agent in Charge and general boil on the ass of humanity, sat in a chair in front of Cook’s desk. Neither man looked happy, but Sean’s face was flushed and his pale eyes flashed with temper.

Stick to the plan. Deny, deny, deny, and buy yourself some time.

As Cort approached the office, Cook glanced up from his desk and the look of disappointment and anger he leveled at Cort could have singed the hair off his head. Cort lifted a hand and ran it through his messy blondish mop. Still there. Barely.

Porter caught the direction of Cook’s glare and turned his head, too, leveling a look of disgust at Cort. He stood as Cort entered the office. “Agent Kendrick Cortland?”

Cort nodded and responded in kind. “Agent Porter.”

Cort put his hand in the pocket of his suit jacket, and smoothed his thumb over the surface of the lucky quarter Damon had given him a few years back. I knew this was going to happen, he reminded himself. I owe Damon more than I can ever repay.

“Have a seat, Agent Cortland,” Sean said stiffly, gesturing next to Agent Porter.

Cort sat stiffly. Think about Damon. Think about Sebastian Seaver. You’re about more than your badge.

“You know why you’re here, I presume,” Porter said.

It was the kind of bullshit interrogation tactic they were taught on day one in the Academy. Did he think Cort was an idiot? That he’d start babbling?

“I’m afraid I don’t, sir,” Cort replied, spreading his palms out flat in front of him and attempting a smile.

“Cort, enough with the bullshit,” Sean said. “You started working with me right after you left Quantico. You don’t have any tricks I don’t know about.”

But growing up in a house where the very act of breathing was often grounds for punishment meant Cort knew better than to volunteer information. “Why don’t you tell me what you think I’ve done,” he said.

Porter leaned forward and grabbed a tablet from the desk.

“How about unauthorized use of Bureau assets, for starters? This image turned up on a facial recognition scan at the airport in Barbados, but the face isn’t linked to any ongoing investigation in our database. Running a trace using facial recognition software without authorization is a serious offense.”

He turned the display towards Cort, who kept his expression blank when he saw the picture on the screen. There, in grainy color, was a man with shaggy, prematurely-gray hair and a beard, his baggy clothing barely concealing his tall, lean frame. It was the very same image Cort had printed out that morning, the one now growing damp inside his shoe, and it finally proved a suspicion that had only grown stronger for the past six months.

Cort’s foster brother, Damon Fitzpatrick, who everyone on earth believed to be dead, was actually very much alive.

Cort put his hand back in his pocket and fitted the quarter between his fingers. Flick and roll, flick and roll. “Wow, yeah. I would imagine it’s serious. And you think I had something to do with running the face through the system?”

“Don’t play dumb, Agent Cortland,” Porter warned. “It’s not a good look on you. Now, how about if you tell us who this man is and why you were searching for him.”

Cort made a non-committal noise. “I wish I could, Agent Porter,” he said, a slight bitterness in his voice. He wished Damon could have a fair shot at coming forward and clearing his name without having to deal with Sebastian Seaver, the heir-apparent to the global Seaver Tech conglomerate, and Cam Seaver, the younger brother who always covered for him.

Agent Porter puffed out his chest and stared at Cort. “Agent Gigi Weston recalls you initiating a flirtation with her a few months ago,” he continued.

“Gigi?” Cort asked, rolling the name around his mouth as though trying to place it. “Oh, the redhead on the seventh floor?”

“Yes,” Porter huffed.

Cort nodded and smiled. “Right, I remember. She’s a lovely woman. I do remember chatting with her a few months back.”

“She said she offered to show you the facial recognition system,” Porter prompted. “And you seemed extremely enthusiastic. She assumed you had a romantic interest in her, and asking her to show you the system was just a way to break the ice. But it wasn’t. Was it?”

“I don’t understand what you’re getting at,” Cort lied. “I do remember her chatting to me about the computer, but… Well, you know me and computers.” He shot Sean a self-deprecating smile. “I was sort of flirting with her at the time, but then circumstances changed.”

“You mean you got her to show you how to program a long-term search and then ditched her?”

Cort blinked. Right on the money. “No. I mean, I remembered there’s a no-fraternization policy in the office.”

This time it was Sean who snorted. “You honestly mean to say you were flirting with Gigi? Just last week at Garvey’s, you took off with some guy named Tom.”

“Your point?” Cort retorted, allowing his very real impatience with this topic to show. Yeah, he’d been flirting with Gigi to learn her programming system, but he could have flirted with her for other reasons. Jesus. They needed to cover bisexuality in the next sensitivity training.

“And what about this?” Porter tapped his tablet again and showed Cort a split-screen of two very official-looking letters.

Now this was a surprise. He hadn’t expected anyone to catch him on this rule-bending so soon.

Although Cort didn’t need to read further than the company header at the top of the one on the right - Seaver Tech - to know what he was looking at, he carefully read the entire thing, then shifted his attention to the letter on the left and read through that one too, as though his own signature wasn’t affixed to the bottom, buying himself a minute to compose himself.

“This looks like a pretty standard letter from the FBI giving notice of a potential investigation. And the other one looks like the typical, rich-corporation boilerplate reply, saying they’re far too powerful and entitled to take our investigation seriously. Nothing out of the ordinary.”

Cort glanced up and met Porter’s eyes. They glittered with anger, and somehow it calmed Cort. He could deal with anger.

“It wouldn’t be out of the ordinary,” Porter agreed. “If this were in our jurisdiction to investigate! This isn’t Cyber Crimes, Agent Cortland, and no one in the hierarchy has ever authorized an investigation into Seaver Technologies!”

Cort clenched his jaw, gripping the quarter in his hand so tightly he knew it would leave a mark on his palm. “Perhaps you’re not aware, but we received a tip regarding a very clear data breach–”

“An anonymous tip about a data breach which, I will repeat, you have no authority to investigate! Without a warrant, you’re only going on an unauthorized fishing expedition. You don’t take up a position against a company as powerful as Seaver Tech without dotting your I’s and crossing every damn T.” Porter’s eyes were hard as stone. “If they chose to take further action against us for harassment, it would leave us open to litigation, and after the year the Seavers have had, we never would have won.”

Rage blossomed in Cort’s chest. The Seavers had a tough year? They didn’t know the half of it. And now they were getting off scot-free, without any repercussions, as they always seemed to.

Porter shook his head in disgust. “You’re lucky they seem to have dropped it after this letter.”

Those words were like tiny pins that pricked the dam of Cort’s composure, unleashing a deluge. “I’m lucky? I was doing my job and investigating illegal activity! Jesus!” Cort locked his teeth together, trying to rein in his temper.

Porter opened his mouth to reply, but Sean cut him off. “Cortland, this isn’t your first rodeo, so don’t start talking to me about how conducting an investigation within the boundaries of the law is compromising your morals. There are rules and procedures we need to follow, and you know it. You know exactly how far to push the line without crossing it, and you also know better than to pull a cowboy, vigilante stunt like this.” He motioned towards the letter on the tablet.

Sean was right. Cort did know better. He’d sent the letter weeks ago, in a spurt of impatient frustration, wondering if he’d ever see Damon again, if he’d ever have enough information to make Sebastian Seaver pay. It had been stupid and he’d known nothing would come of it, but he’d hoped it would make the bastards at Seaver Tech sweat, if only for a minute.

Now, knowing he had nothing more to lose today, he crossed his arms over his chest and stood firm. “What I know is when assholes like Sebastian Seaver say jump, we say ‘How high, sir?’ He can get away with anything.”

“Ah, and that offends you because only you should be able to bend the rules? You’re Kendrick Cortland, the Robin Hood of the FBI!” Porter scoffed and it took all Cort’s self-control not to wipe the smirk off Porter’s face with his fist.

“I think we’ve heard enough,” Porter told Sean, then he stood and looked down at Cort. “You’re hereby suspended without pay, Agent Cortland, until the Office of Professional Responsibility can investigate your involvement in this matter. Sean, take his gun and badge. I’ll get Vasquez, and we’ll escort him out of the building.” Porter turned and left the office, almost gleeful.

Cort found his ass stuck in his chair and a lump stuck in his throat. The words had hit him like a sucker punch, even though he’d been expecting them.

“Sean, if I were to break the rules, it would be to help someone who didn’t have the power to help himself,” Cort said quietly. If this was the last moment Sean would be his boss, it was somehow important that Sean not think of him as an asshole.

So stupid.

Sean shook his head in disgust. “You think I don’t know that? Christ, Cort. That’s not the issue. Not for me, anyway. You see this piece of crap?” he demanded, pointing at the framed inspirational poster that had been hanging on his wall for as long as Cort could remember, the word Teamwork emblazoned over a sunset skyline. “You think I keep this here because the freaking scenery inspires me? I’ve been preaching this to you idiots for years, but you just won’t get it. There’s no ‘U’ in teamwork. You don’t close cases on your own, you don’t go into a sketchy situation without backup, and you don’t go off half-cocked just because, for reasons I can’t fathom, you hate rich people in general and Sebastian Seaver in particular.” Sean shook his head sadly. “Until you learn to trust someone, Cort, until you can really believe other people have your back, you’re gonna be shark bait for guys like Porter…and guys like Seaver.”

Cort ground his teeth together to keep silent. Sean Cook didn’t know a single thing about his life beyond the black-and-white statistics of his personnel file - the number of foster homes he’d been in and out of, the number of schools he’d attended, the number of jobs he’d worked to get himself through college. Nobody knew what went on in those homes behind closed doors, or what it was like to grow up in the poorest, sketchiest neighborhood of an affluent town. They didn’t understand the loyalty a man earned when he stood in front of a closed fist to protect his brother.

Men like Porter existed only to serve fat cats like Sebastian Seaver, and Cort would be damned if he’d play that game, even if it meant surrendering his badge.

He took his FBI cell phone out of his pocket, but before he could set it on the desk, Sean shook his head. “Keep it. We’ll need to contact you.”

Cort nodded robotically, his stomach churning. The worst had happened, professionally-speaking, but he reminded himself that now he could focus more fully on finding Damon. Another thing to blame Cam and Sebastian Seaver for.

A knock at the door signaled Porter’s return. He’d found another agent and was ready to escort Cort out of the building. Cort stood and mechanically removed his gun from its holster, placing it on Sean’s desk. It was weird setting his badge next to the gun. He felt a flash of panic, followed by an unsettling weightlessness, like the gravity holding him in place had somehow reversed itself. Who was he without his badge?

It was time to find out.

He nodded once at Sean. “Thank you,” he said, and he knew Sean would understood those thanks had nothing to do with the bullshit he’d just spewed, but with the years he’d spent teaching Cort how to be a good agent.

Sean nodded.

Cort turned and shouldered his way through the doorway, pushing himself between Porter and the other agent. Porter put a hand on his shoulder to stop him.

“Just a second, Cortland.”

“What?” Cort sputtered as the agent gestured for Cort to put his hands in the air. “You can’t do that.”

“Oh, you’ll find we can,” Porter said pleasantly, patting him down.

Porter removed Cort’s phone, keys, and wallet, then came upon the thumb drive Cort had stuck in his pocket.

Porter smiled. “Well, now. Look at that. You weren’t taking information out of the building, were you?”

“Hey!” Cort protested. “That’s personal!”

“This is an FBI-issued thumb drive,” Porter corrected him. “I’m afraid whatever’s on here is going to have to remain in evidence. You can be sure I’m going to go over it with a fine-toothed comb, myself.”

Cort let his anger rise to the surface. “Good luck with that!” he spat.

He grabbed his belongings from Porter’s hand, then strode down the hall toward the elevator with the two escorts hot on his heels.

Cort powered through the revolving door and out onto the rain-swept Boston street before he allowed himself to take a deep breath. If he wanted to help his brother, he needed to play by a different set of rules than Sean Cook did - rules that involved using Cam Seaver to find Damon.